


An unorthodox solution

by solunvar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Study, Gen, POV Albus Dumbledore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 17:48:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19178329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solunvar/pseuds/solunvar
Summary: How do you save a boy from a required death? Albus Dumbledore searches for a solution and finds it.





	1. One

Some would have you believe Albus Dumbledore was as mad as a hatter. After all, have you seen his robes? The patterns? The colours? Others would shake their heads and proclaim the wizard to be the Great Manipulator, the one true Dark Lord hiding behind a silver veneer.

The truth was neither here nor there - never could be as clear cut as opponents and fans would like. Albus Dumbledore was a bright and gifted man. A man who had his flaws, yet was not ashamed to acknowledge them (when confronted of course, coming out still wasn’t a thing for centenarians). Early confrontation with his inner depths, early tragedy, had made him a proponent of change - in every aspect where it counted.

He liked mismatched socks, Flavour Beans, his tea without the milk, yet most of all he liked the way Fawkes’ plumage would subtly shift from one birth cycle to another. _Even time weathers down the endless_ , the red-orange-golden feathers would whisper.

It wasn’t thus a surprise that - having veered off the greater good - young Albus would master the art of transfiguration and venture into the abstracts of alchemy in cahoots with that other illustrative figure: Nicholas Flamel.

It wasn’t also such a surprise for Albus when, years after having last seen him, his preference for change would clash with people’s natural xenophobia. That this resistance happened to be the vanguard of a darker figure, well, who could have guessed? For every no Albus had ever given, there had been quite an equal amounts of yes. In the grand scheme of things (not the greater good, but the bigger painting), what is one negligent prejudice?

The obliviation of hope, it turned out to be.

Thus, heavy-hearted, Albus buried promise after promise, sought an answer to a conflict that shouldn't exist. (“Why can’t people,” he would sometimes lament to himself, “just fight it out in the bowling lane?”) Then the Potter couple were killed, something transpired and the veil of darkness lifted over the world, leaving behind yet another orphan to be raised by strangers.

At least the boy had family. At least Albus knew - entirely by coincidence, by her own actions even - of the older sister, Begonia Dursley. (Something niggled in the back of his mind every time he thought of the lass, as if he’d not quite remembered something right.)

Suffice to say, because he knew of the person, because he was curious, because he felt as if young Lily and James deserved their fate as much as dear Ariana deserved hers, because you never _know_ with these things, he happened to be there when the child was handed over.

He never told Minerva why he’d decided on a letter instead of knocking on the door. Daren’t utter what he suspected when he saw the toddler laying in Hagrid’s basket. Tried for the best to ignore his observation for the better part of nine years.

Then one night he went bowling with some friends and he found himself drinking a pint too much.

He looked at the pins down the lane and then looked at the ball in his hand. His eyes grew moist as he felt the weight of the ball and thought of that young boy laying in his basket. The magic and presence concentrated around the boy’s forehead.

He tried to do a perfect throw, he really did. But the ball went off not even three feet after it hit the deck.

“How unusual, Brian,” his friend Nicolas told him as the man was about to pick up his own ball. (His turn.)

Albus sat down and stared at his half full glass of beer.

“What is on your mind, mon petit?” Perenelle asked, sitting next to him.

“I don’t know how to save him,” he finally dared admit.

Nicolas of course scored a perfect strike. “Save who?” he asked. You’d think six centuries would render you deaf, but that wasn’t the case at all.

Albus heaved a sigh. “The Potter boy.”

“Le bébé that survived that Voldemort figure?” Perenelle inquired.

Nicolas nodded as if something started to make sense. “Only Dark magic would vanish a body like that. The Killing Curse is too light-handed to do so.”

The downside of hanging around with people who’d gained longevity in the 14th century is that it's rather difficult to hold things close to one's vest.

“I suspect soul magic,” Albus shared. “Dark, foul, soul magic. I don’t know whether the boy actually survived the night. I don’t know whether the boy can be cured without dying.”

Nicolas had then clapped his hand on Albus’ shoulder and said: “You’ll figure something out. You always do.”

Perenelle shrugged and stood up, ready to play her turn. “I’ll have a look at our experiments, see whether there’s anything worthwhile in them.”

It did help Albus regain his confidence, though that one round did define the rest of his game: he ended up last!


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A solution is found and proposed.

It wasn’t a simply task, sourcing all the ingredients for what he wanted to make. Alchemy, that elusive branch of magic that transmuted life to a level beyond potion or ritual.

Nicolas Flamel had taught him much during his youth, Albus acknowledged. How many hours had he not sat in that Parisian workshop, watching odd substance bubble and twirl in beakers and cauldrons and tubes.

Albus’s hand shook only slightly as he worked in his own workshop, carefully turning the mixture known as _Flower of Potential_ upside down. The liquid hung suspended in the air until suddenly - on his command of course - the flask of dragon seed he’d recently come to possess thrust upwards into the _Flower_ and unleashed the seed.

Once he saw the two liquids were starting to interacting, turning from a mirky white into a vibrant yellow, Albus reverted the beaker, poured the liquid into a series of tubes that spiralled the next stage, the _Essence of Potential,_ into a special cauldron where a thestral testicle sprinkled with phoenix ash sat in the center.

Albus observed the way the _Essence_ spread into the cauldron, nodding in satisfaction as the liquid kept the spiral form. If it hadn't, all of his hard work would have been for naught. 

_Nicolas would have called it unorthodox_ , Albus thought to himself. _Too bad his Stone never made it out of the Mirror. Would have been so much easier to do this._

The _Essence_ absorbed into the testicle, taking the phoenix ash inside as it did so. The testicle luckily didn’t swell, but started to glow bright yellow the more _Essence_ was absorbed.

When no more liquid remained, the testicle kept on glowing for some time as the temperature settled. Albus took care not to touch what he tentatively, affectionately perchance, called _Rebirth in a Lemon Drop._

Fawkes, who sat on a perch nearby, chirped inquirily.

Albus smiled gently at his faithful companion. “We’ll have to let it settle for now,” he said, “but I do believe I’ve found a way to cleanse the boy of Tom’s magic without actually dying.”

The thrill Fawkes gave him cheered him up for the rest of the week.

\---

_Rebirth in a Lemon Drop_ took three weeks to settle into full stability. Albus took great pleasure in picking out a rather suiting ring box to hand over the confection. Had to charm the colours himself of course. (Sometimes he profoundly missed the Muggle seventies.)

Albus hesitated for a couple of months after having accomplished his solution. How do you after all tell a teenage boy that he’s got something inside of him that needed to be removed irrevocably? That he had the choice of an experimental solution with unforeseen side effects or - effectively - suicide?

Didn’t help that the Dementors kept on their love affair with the boy who housed two souls. Or that Sirius Black, who’d proven to become such a disappointment, kept on infiltrating the castle. _Honestly_ , Albus thought disgruntled at the past years, _I’m supposed to be the protector of this place, not its figurehead._

So Albus stalled. He didn’t really have an excuse. Just explanations. Story of his life, really.

March became April. April turned into May. Everywhere he looked, Albus saw life rejoice in the season. The weather turned more turbulent of course. Rain, sun, wind all shifted about in the course of an hour.

In the Forbidden Forest, offspring was birthed and given the chance to strengthen during the summer season. The Thestrals had foals, Hagrid whispered excitedly along the table at lunch.

So it was Albus sent out a missive for young Mr Potter to join him in his office at the end of June, nearly three months later.

The boy’s knock on his door was hesitant, like the year before. It was one of the reasons that had decided Albus’s course of action, actually. There was not a single sense of entitlement in the knock.

“Come in, Mr Potter,” Albus said.

The door opened quietly, aware of the noise old hinges made.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” the boy said.

Albus gestured for the chair on the other side of his desk. “Have a seat, Mr Potter,” he replied.

The boy sat on the edge of the chair. Confused. Uncomfortable with the situation.

Albus looked at him, observing the young wizard before him. Picking apart the subconscious body language expressed. A Slytherin would have been as aware of his surroundings as Harry Potter. A Slytherin would have held still and not fidgeted as much.

“Sir?” the boy eventually asked.

Albus nodded, content with what he’d seen. “Do you remember when we spoke last year, after your confrontation with Tom Riddle’s diary?”

Potter glanced at the Sorting Hat, then at the display showing Gryffindor’s sword and Fawkes sitting on his perch. “Yes, sir. I remember.”

“Do you remember how I told you of my belief that Voldemort left a piece of himself behind inside of you the night he... confronted your parents and yourself?” He asked then. The boy was young still, he certainly didn’t need to know _all_ details.

Potter nodded shortly. “I do, sir.”

Albus folded his hands together and leaned forward. “I confess to having suspected as much when I saw you that night.”

The boy gasped. “You were there, sir?”

Albus shook his head. “I wasn’t in Godric’s Hollow that night,” he said. “But I was there when we left you with your aunt.” He paused then. A bit dramatic, perhaps, but necessary. “Ever since that day I’ve had my doubts as to what happened that night. Your adventure last year with Voldemort’s diary confirmed what I feared.”

“What-” the boy began, struggling to form coherent words. A common affliction among teenagers, Albus knew. “What did you fear?”

Albus brushed his own forehead. Potter copied his motions. “That your scar is more than it should be.” His fingers descended to his lips. “That what Voldemort left behind is both more crucial and more intrinsic than a mere language ability.” His hand came to rest on his desk then.

Potter stared at him. “What does it mean, Headmaster?” he asked.

Albus sighed. “It means, my dear boy, that I have been looking for a way to save you from Voldemort’s manipulations.” He looked over his glasses at the boy, then took the ring box out of his robe pocket.

The boy’s face became pale on recognizing the shape of the box. “P-p-professor,” he whispered. “I don’t understand what...”

“You need protection, Mr Potter,” Albus solemnly said. “In the absence of legendary artifacts, I had to figure a unique way to both assure your continued existence as well as deny Voldemort access to your person.”

The boy was really starting to look like an owl, Albus noted, curious.

“You-” the boy whispered, as if he couldn’t believe the situation and was about to be sick, “you want me to marry you?”

Albus blinked. Went over the conversation in his head and blushed.

Potter looked at him in abject horror.

Fawkes chirped his amusement into the room.

Potter looked at the bird in betrayal.

“I-” Albus began, then paused, trying to find the right words. “Just open the box, Mr Potter.”

Shaking hands approached the fluorescent rainbow-coloured box and shifted the box closer, inch by inch, as if trying to deny a hypothetical reality. Potter took in the entire room, setting and occupants, slowly, as if coming to a sudden realization about the nature of life and the universe.

Then he actually opened the box and just blinked stupidly at the content.

“In my original plans,” Albus said, “the only choice for your person would have essentially been suicide.” Potter let out a relieved sigh. Albus couldn't help it. He did feel a bit insulted. “As long as you live in your current state, Voldemort cannot be... vanquished.”

Potter kept quiet for a bit, obviously thinking deeply about his situation. After a while, he asked: “Is that why you had me live with my Aunt and Uncle?”

Albus had the grace to blush again. “While I admit that your treatment at their hands might have helped in that regard, that wasn't actually the purpose. You were placed with your relatives because they were your relatives and I happened to know of your aunt’s existence.”

“Oh.”

A slightly awkward silence descended upon the conversation, as sensitive subjects are wont to do.

“What does the lemon drop do?” Potter eventually asked.

Albus brightened up immediately. “Well, I was feeling inspired by Fawkes’ burning days and a perusal through ‘A History of Magic’, reading about lost hobbies, in creating the _Rebirth in a Lemon Drop_. Using my expertise in alchemy, I have created a way for a human to go through the equivalent of a phoenix’s burning day.”

Potter’s eyes flitted over towards the bird in question, then fell on the Lemon Drop. “So if I take this,” he said, “I will burn up and become a baby again?”

Albus shifted his glasses. “It’s not quite the same, Mr Potter.”

The boy tilted his head in curiosity. “What does it do then?”

Albus cleared his throat a bit. “After consuming _Rebirth in a Lemon Drop_ , you will have to burn... To the death, I’m afraid. Once that has happened, the real magic will immediately revitalise your body. As it is an experimental transmutation, there might be one or two unforeseen side effects.” Albus paused, wondering whether he should be telling all of this. Maybe he should have just offered the lemon drop and arranged a bonfire? “It is an unorthodox solution. If it weren’t for the necessity of your situation, I would be hesitant to allow it...”

“But I have to die no matter what,” Potter whispered.

Albus grimaced. Unfortunately, Voldemort rather abhorred bowling lanes. “Essentially. _Rebirth in a Lemon Drop_ gives you the choice to allow this in a controlled manner with the assurance of survival.”

Potter looked uncertain at the rainbow-coloured box and its content. “If... If I do this,” the boy almost seemed to beg. “Will I be free?”

“If your connection to Voldemort has been dealt with,” Albus promised, “I will do my utmost best to give you the freedom you desire. It pains me to give you a choice so cruel after the life you have lived, the sacrifices you have already given.”

Potter clasped his hand on the box, shutting it close and moving to his own pockets. “I have to think about this,” he said quietly as he stood.

Albus nodded.

“The Lemon Drop will keep for another seven years,” he said to the boy. “Take your time. While it takes a year and some effort to create a new one, I will gladly do so for you.”

Potter nodded once. “Good day, Headmaster,” he said right before closing the door.

The minute he felt the stairs shift and the gargoyle close off the entrance again, Albus heaved a sigh of relief. “Well, that went better than I expected.”

Phineas Black, erstwhile Headmaster, snorted. “It would be kinder to cast the Killing Curse, Albus,” the portrait said.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A solution is applied.

Albus looked at his blackened arm and frowned, disturbed at the realizations he was coming to recently.

Death’s embrace awaited him, he knew. Whether it would be the Malfoy boy, Severus’s wand or Tom’s souvenir in his arm, one of these factors would be his end.

Tom had been a naughtier boy than Albus ever had imagined: it wasn't just the Potter boy affected, not just the diary. There were far more Horcruxes than Albus would have imagined. Too much for him to take care of in the time left to him.

A chime resounded from one of his cabinets. Albus schooled his expression, trying to shed part of his doubts. Outside his office’s door, stone grinded against stone as the stairway escalated to the right level. Seconds later, a familiar hesitant knock resounded.

“Come in, Mr Potter,” Albus said, loud enough to resonate through the wood.

The boy who walked in now was not yet the man he would become, yet far more than the child who’d boarded the Hogwarts Express for the first time six years ago.

Albus indicated the other side of the desk. “Have a seat.”

The boy sat down and looked at him.

Albus was reluctant to begin this conversation, having held it three years before, having acknowledged it as a subconscious evasion. If he could, he would let it linger like that. Unfortunately, events and circumstances were forcing his hand.

Harry Potter seemed to grasp the subtle direction: he looked away first and let his gaze rest on Fawkes, who stared back curiously. “It’s a Horcrux, isn't it?” the boy acknowledged softly.

Albus nodded. “I’m afraid so, my boy,” he said.

“The lemon drop,” the other wizard murmured.

Albus leaned back a bit, feeling the cushion against his spine, ignored the soft tremble of his diseased muscles. “I’m afraid I can’t give you any more time.”

Mr Potter fumbled in his pocket then and laid a familiar ring box on the desk between them.

“I thought it might come to this,” the boy said.

Albus hesitated then, as he looked at the evidence of his genius, the _Rebirth in a Lemon Drop_. It wasn't the only way to handle the Horcrux anymore, he knew. It had cost him his arm, he would eventually pay for it with his own life, but the Resurrection Stone was his. The Deathstick was his. The boy possessed the Invisibility Cloak. _‘I could make him the Master of Death,’_ Gellert’s voice seductively whispered in Albus’s mind. It wouldn’t be simple, it would be incredibly risky, Albus would literally gamble with fate and chance if he did so. The result could be so grand! Beyond comprehension!

And that is why Albus couldn't. Why even though he could that didn't mean he should. Because anything that tempered the passion inside of him, that heated the ambition in his heart, only ended in misery and desolation.

“Three days,” he instructed the younger wizard. “I will prepare a pyre.”

Harry Potter nodded in acknowledgement and rose from his seat.

Just before he would open the door, his hand already twisting the knob, he turned his head and looked back at Albus. “And after?”

Albus remembered the promise he’d given. The promise… “I will need someone I trust unconditionally to help with the other Horcruxes.”

The boy closed his eyes briefly, as if already warding off the future upon him. “I understand, sir.” Then he opened the door and closed it silently.

Albus’s gaze drifted to the clouds passing by the mountains on the other side of the Forest, lost in thought.

\---

Just as Hogwarts housed a fully equipped dungeon, carefully maintained by a nostalgic Argus Filch, so did it house a usually hidden pyre courtyard. In the past centuries, witch burning had lost its appeal as a course as well as a hobby. Wendelin the Weird might have been the most enthusiastic witch to pursue the hobby, at one point in time it had been one of the key passages in a wizard’s practical N.E.W.T. examination of Muggle Studies. The practice peeked in the years before the Secrecy Act had been enacted by the International Wizarding Conference, though it was in truth already declining after Oliver Cromwell absconded with the monarchy and inspired the creation of the Ministry of Magic. Nevertheless, for a good four hundred years, witches and wizards routinely tried their bravery on the stake and for this a dedicated burning place was provided for at Hogwarts.

Albus explained the history of the practice to Harry Potter in an effort to lighten the mood and provide his own brand of comfort concerning the future to be had.

Albus knew the young Mr Potter had not said a word about what was to come to neither of his close friends. It was in the way he interacted with both of them and the confusion they in turn expressed as the boy hugged them tightly or looked them straight in the eyes, as if he’d never see them again.

At long last Albus tapped the right pattern on the stone tiles and opened the archway to the pyre court.

The boy’s movements stilled as they approached the pyre.

Albus had done his best, asking dear Hagrid for a fine selection of dry wood which Albus had stacked himself (using magic, of course, the dreaded things weighed too much for his age).

Albus looked meaningful at his companion.

The boy swallowed a lump in his throat and took out the lemon drop from it’s container.

Albus briefly inspected his creation in approval. Finest bit of alchemy he’d done in fifty years, if he said so himself.

The boy made a movement as if to bite down on the drop.

Albus shook his head. “You have to let it melt on your tongue,” he said. “Let the magic seep into your body slowly.”

The boy gave a thoughtful frown as the taste of the lemon drop obviously came to the fore. “Bitter,” the boy mumbled.

Albus ignored to urge to stroke his beard. ”One of the main ingredients, I’m afraid,” he consoled. “It’s an acquired taste.”

Harry Potter’s brows furrowed. “It almost tastes like…”

“Yes, well,” Albus quickly interrupted, deciding his ears could be spared of any details. “It’s the effect we’re after,” he defended, “not as much the taste.”

Harry - Albus decided that he could refer to the young man with his first name from now on - considered his explanation and thankfully let his curiosity drop. Albus would _never_ reveal what exactly gave his invention its white, cream-like colour.

With a sigh, Harry shuffled onwards reluctantly, looking at the stake and the wood around it. His hesitation gave way to stubborn determination as he climbed the pyre and settled against the stake.

Albus frowned in thought. “Do you want me to tie you up?”

“Professor?” Harry ventured then.

“Yes, Harry?” Albus asked.

“Are you by any chance gay?”

Albus beamed pridefully. “Why, my dear boy, what gave it away?”

Harry looked at Albus’s robes then as if vibrant lilac wasn't a normal colour at all. “It’s almost gone, sir,” he said and looked down at himself. “I think I’m going to run when I feel the flames.”

With a wave of his wand, Albus conjured iron manacles to secure Harry’s arms and feet to the pole. It was a foreboding sight, casting away any sense of frivolity that had been present up until then.

The fire had to be lit, Albus knew. Yet despite being perfectly capable of casting the eternal flame, despite mastering the fire whip, despite having been the companion to a phoenix and the discoverer of the thirteen uses of dragon blood, Albus found himself incapable of casting the spell that would do so.

He tried to steel himself, tried to man up to what was required.

Unlike the last time he had to do so - unlike the last time it was this personal - he didn't have the nearly twenty years to prepare him to do so.

And Albus found that when it came to this, to hurting a person he’d grown to love, he couldn't. _‘Maybe I can just… let him walk away?’_ he started thinking. _‘Maybe I should just… The Resurrection Stone would work too, wouldn't it?’_

“Headmaster,” Harry admonished then, causing Albus to blush.

 _‘This is exactly why I’ve always worked through others,’_ Albus lamented to himself. This confrontation business with loved ones? Really not his forte.

As if hearing his hesitation from afar, Fawkes the phoenix flew into the courtyard, chanting a sobering melody. Albus’s wand lowered in defeat. He couldn't - he really really couldn't do this.

“Fawkes,” Harry greeted the bird.

Fawkes thrilled back a query.

Albus didn't understand how the boy could remain so calm. Where was the passion, the frustration that had haunted the boy throughout his O.W.L. year? Where was the teenage angst? Albus daren’t speak, knowing his bravado had fallen through.

“You should have brought the Sorting Hat,” Harry went on to say. “It’s the Chamber all over again.”

Fawkes’s reply was a curious note.

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to do the honours, my friend,” the boy murmured and nodded to Albus.

It was then - as he looked at what was transpiring - that Albus began to feel an inkling what it must have been like in all of the previous adventures Harry Potter went through, how much worthier than he the boy was. Here they were, a plan cooked up by Albus for reasons Albus should have handled years ago, wherein Harry was more victim than perpetrator, yet it was Harry who was pushing for the _pragmatic_ outcome.

Fawkes seemed to have come to the same conclusion it seemed, for he flew on towards the pyre and landed.

The boy and the bird seemed to look each other in the eye then, as if counting down together.

A flame ignited beneath Fawkes’s paws and descended into the pyre, enveloping both of them.

Albus could only watch, pain and horror coursing through him as the flames rose and rose, accompanied by the cries of somebody literally burning alive and trying desperately to get away, but not being able to.

His knees weakened and Albus abruptly sat down on the ground. This - what he’d wrought here, was this not what Ariana had gone through? Was this not the tragedy of the Credence boy? The devolution of Nagini? What Voldemort could never understand?

It hurt to look. It hurt to realize.

It hurt because it was _necessary_.

Because Albus was always the person to see the greater good, never the one to enact it.

Longer than he dared imagine did the cries of pain sound.

Then, abruptly, only the crackling of the fire remained.

The flames intensified.

Fawkes was turning into an egg again.

Harry’s body was covered in ash.

Albus hoped the boy was alive. That his invention had worked.

The egg cracked and a small chick stumbled out. The chick wobbled a bit, but steadily made its way to where the possible cadaver’s head should be.

Weakly, Albus rose and shuffled towards the burnt pyre.

Fawkes was picking at a black crust as if it was an egg to crack.

Hands shaking not from disease, but from anxiety, Albus cautiously peeled away the crust covering Harry’s eyes.

The eyes that opened upon his doing so were very familiar. The nose and face that revealed itself? That certainly wasn't what he’d expected.

Fawkes warbled in excitement.

Prudent now, conscious of where his hands might roam, Albus peeled back more of the black crust. The more ‘reborn’ body he uncovered, the more it became clear something profound had changed. He’d calculated for minor superficial changes, but he’d always considered those to be baldness or a different skin tone. A gender switch however with all the internal rearrangements that required? Unexpected.

Albus almost fell backwards in surprise when Harry started to move _her_ arms.

“Harry?” Albus cautiously greeted, aware that this evening roles had shifted and bare truths had been revealed.

Harry looked through him for several moments, before straying her eyes towards Fawkes enthusiastically chirping. “I’m glad to live too, Fawkes,” she said to the bird. “Headmaster.”

Albus’s hesitation must have been obvious, because she was staring him in the eye then, as if making up her mind. Her hands, in the meantime, were picking the flaky crust from her legs and harder to reach places.

“I need some time to clear my thoughts,” she eventually said. “Find some sense of balance.”

Albus nodded - glad that the emotional confrontation might actually not be followed up. “What - what do you propose?”

Harry tilted her head to the side - birdlike in her manner. “I think staying at Grimmauld Place might not be a bad idea, if you don’t mind, sir?”

“That might be for the best,” he acknowledged. “I did not think it would be this radical,” he offered then.

Harry did not quite smile. “I gathered that, sir,” she answered and rose to her feet, picking up Fawkes along with her and cradling him to her breasts.

Albus blushed, coughed softly and averted his eyes. “Allow me, Harry.”

He conjured a robe and had it wrap around Harry with an added twist of his wand.

The walk back to Albus’s office was quiet and slow.

The emotions had fatigued him; the burning ritual obviously hadn't been too kind on Harry either.

He allowed her the use of his hearth to travel to Grimmauld Place and was actually glad to realize she’d dropped Fawkes in his habitual rebirth nest.

With a heavy sigh, Albus descended to his bedroom.

Sleep was difficult to gain.


End file.
